


And So It Goes On...

by xytera



Category: Naruto
Genre: Don't worry tho, I promise, M/M, Reincarnation, lots and lots of angst, lots of suffering, there's a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-08-27 12:27:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8401696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xytera/pseuds/xytera
Summary: History repeats itself, over and over again until bitterness evolves to attainment and torment sprouts into hope. Madara has already lived a hundred lifetimes, but perhaps this one precious life will count after centuries of endless pain. MadaTobi





	1. As Rage Turns to Regret...

**Author's Note:**

> Credits to Kishimoto Masashi for the characters.

 It is bitter rage and helplessness that builds and builds until it is a festering sore just beneath the skin. 

Madara cannot help it, not when his brothers fall to the deadly blade of war, not when his brothers are hailed as proud shinobi who fell in battle with the unspoken reality that they were mere _child warriors_. 

He keeps his simmering rage and vigilantly protects his remaining brother, grief stricken deep in his heart as he watches the tiny broken bodies of his brothers lain to rest one by one, all within a few short years. His roiling emotions manifests as ruthless viciousness in battle, cutting down anyone who dares to even _think_ of harming Izuna. 

Then his rage is comes to an abrupt halt when he meets a boy by the river. 

Hashirama is different, but their vision is of the same motivation. It is during those few, blissfully childish moments that Madara finds peace, when his rage subsides and calm determination comes over his helpless fury. 

He _believes_ , and he  _hopes_ for the first time, two naive boys dreaming of a world without unending death and despair. 

But those dreams are shattered the second Madara realizes that he must choose between those fanciful dreams and his clan’s survival, and he chooses without hesitation, ruthlessly pushing away those childish days as his smoldering fury blazes to life in the burning scarlet of the Sharingan. 

He pretends to not see the crushed expression Hashirama wears as he turns away from the Senju across the river. He hardens his heart and fiercely promises to protect his last brother until his dying breath. 

And so they wage war. 

Blood and death and hate and violence, again and again, until the festering sore turns into a gaping wound that cannot heal, and then it becomes rotting flesh when he sees the white-haired Senju’s blade slice through Izuna’s side in a fatal blow. 

Madara entire world shakes, and he rushes towards his brother, the wound inside him crumbling at the edges with stinking rot. 

“ _Izuna!_ ” His cry is bathed in terror and rage and he _knows_. 

The wound is mortal. 

Madara _breaks_. 

And he is defeated, but his rage lives on even when the village he has not believed in since he was a child comes to life. 

Hashirama becomes the Hokage. 

And— 

Senju Tobirama. 

The name is a curse. The man is poison to the decaying wound that is now all black flesh and oozing hatred. 

Madara leaves the village and does not look back. 

He schemes and plans and calls brokenly for his brother’s forgiveness in his restless nightmares. He wants death and vengeance and peace all at once, and so he dies on this plane where his spirit forever haunts. 

His revival is ultimately imminent, for he knows that there is no one to stand in his way now. 

Whether it be reality or not, he will attain a world of peace without violence through his own means, no matter if no one wishes for it. 

But he is defeated once more and Hashirama comes to him as he has always done. He sees all of the kage together from the Pure Land and the tailed beast’s joy upon realizing they are freed from their constraints. He remembers the shinobi alliance gathered to face him even if it meant their deaths and the pleas for peace that Hashirama has never ceased to offer to him. It is the first time Madara _wonders_ if he might have been wrong, if he could have done something better, if he could have lived a content life with his brothers in Hashirama’s dream, because that is all he’s ever truly wanted. 

Madara dies a second time and _wishes_. 

 

**-~~o0O0o~~-**

 

 _500 Years Later, Feudal Japan_  

It is blood and death and war, and Madara wonders if it will be his fate to be born in endless bloodshed. 

Two of his brothers have died, one killed in battle and the other by the earthquake that had taken the lives of thousands. His father is head of the clan, and his remaining two brothers follow him with steadfast loyalty becoming of samurai. 

It must be misfortunate fate when he finds himself on the opposite side of the army approaching them and sees Hashirama marching determined and tired and persevering all at once, but it is clear that Hashirama does not recognize him. No one remembers the past but for Madara. 

They wage war, clad in armor and blades reminiscent of a past that Madara as lived, roaring with deafening fury and fervor. Madara loses sight of Izuna for an instant, cuts down a foe, and turns only to see— 

Slanted red eyes and white hair peeking out from under his kabuto helmet, Senju Tobirama parries Izuna’s slanted strike and oddly takes a step back from Izuna, falling into a defensive stance rather than the offensive one he is capable of. Madara freezes for but a moment, heart in his throat, and charges towards his brother, the memories of Izuna’s bloody body lying limply in his arms flooding his mind. He’s already lost two, and he will not allow another to die while he’s here to stop it. 

Tobirama sees him, and Madara almost thinks he imagines the recognition when the man’s eyes widen briefly, and then Tobirama sees Izuna’s sword spearing towards him. He can dodge it, Madara knows, can swipe away the attack and return one with lightning speed that Madara won’t be fast enough to stop, but Tobirama _hesitates_ — 

Izuna’s sword pierces through armor and flesh and yanks out. Tobirama falls, blood staining his pale skin. 

Madara cannot stop to think, to wonder why Tobirama had hesitated for a split second and seemingly let himself be cut down. He alternately flings into combat and defends his brothers, lost in the blur of turbulent bloodshed. 

They win the battle, capturing the feudal lord and his son who will be his successor. 

Tajima beheads Butsuma first while his clan cheers in animalistic frenzy. He moves to Hashirama next, raising his bloodied sword. Madara turns away. 

The heads of the Senju are displayed on stakes, a warning to all of the Uchiha clan’s might. 

Madara tries not to think about the broken grief he had glimpsed in Hashirama’s eyes when the Senju had seen his brother’s corpse and the recognition that bespoke an unsolved mystery in Tobirama’s.

 

**-~~o0O0o~~-**

 

 _100 Years Later, European Medieval Ages_  

It is pain and suffering and disease and conflict. 

His brothers have all been lost to the epidemic spreading like a malignant miasma over the lands, and Madara is the only one who remains. 

He’s a renowned mercenary for hire, a knight without a lord. His is a man without a purpose, and Madara listlessly wonders if it is his fate to lose his family over and over again. A punishment, perhaps, but a callously _cruel_ one. He’s so numb with agony after screaming to the heavens for answers that he cannot even feel the rotted wound inside, the rage that has lasted through two long, _long_ lifetimes. 

He dismounts his horse and tethers it to a low branch so it can drink from the river. Just as he kneels to wet a cloth to wipe away his sweat, he hears the distinct whiny of a horse and chainmail armor. He looks up and sees a white horse emerge from the brush on the other side of the river, and then he straightens up upon seeing the rider leaning heavily on the animal, red seeping down the white fur. The horse is trembling with exhaustion, and when the knight slides of the horse and falls to the ground, Madara stands abruptly. 

He knows that man anywhere. Clearly weakened, an arrow protruding from his shoulder and thigh, Tobirama grunts as he shakily maneuvers himself up against a tree, pressing a hand against the gushing wound on his belly. He turns his head and pauses, staring at Madara through a pained daze. 

Tobirama does not beg for help, does not say anything, but Madara _knows_ that Tobirama recognizes him. Tobirama closes his eyes and sighs and doesn’t move again. 

Madara leaves shortly after and does not look back.

 

**-~~o0O0o~~-**

 

 _430 Years Later, Victorian Era_  

It is strangely peaceful, but Madara has lived enough wartorn lifetimes to be cautious. 

It is winter, the streets and buildings layered with pristine white snow. Madara pulls his bowler hat down lower and digs his gloved hands into the pockets of his thick winter overcoat for a bit of warmth. He’s never liked the cold. 

Carriages rattle by as he walks down the snow-covered granite street. It’s his youngest brother’s birthday today, but they had forgotten the candles. Izuna had ushered Madara off to buy some at the local candle store just a few blocks away, and despite Madara’s grumbling that they weren’t needed, he’d gone anyway. 

As he walks, Madara scans the streets lined with a surprising amount of carriages. Too many lifetimes of combat has him always alert even if in this timeline he has not been thrown into war yet. 

Madara expects it now, to see a familiar marked face with white hair and red eyes. He would have thought it would be Hashirama who he’d see, but it is always Tobirama. Madara can’t shake the feeling that there is a reason he always finds Tobirama — and it’s _always_ Tobirama who remembers Madara when no one else does. 

A carriage rumbles past, the horses splattering slush as it comes to a stop just ahead by the other carriages. Madara pauses, sweeping a glance over towards the people gathering near a home across the street as the first flakes of snow begins to fall this early morning. He can see a few people dressed in funeral attire assembling in a line at the entrance of the house, a wreath of laurel tied with crape hanging from the front door. Madara continues his trek to the small shop and passes by a few women dressed in black mourning gowns murmuring together. 

“It’s awful,” one says, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, nose bright red from the cold and tears. 

“I heard that the house caught afire from an unattended cooking stove. A family friend offered his house for the funeral, bless his soul,” another murmurs. 

“That poor boy. He lost his parents young, and now he’s lost his entire family,” an elderly woman says pityingly, patting the sniffling woman on the back. 

Madara listens with only mild interest. Death is nothing new, and there has already been multiple accidents since the heavy snows began. 

He glances through the iron gates of the house and stops dead in his tracks. 

Tobirama stands just outside, partially hidden by the mourners on the lawn, wearing a long black overcoat and top hat, holding an elegant ebony cane in his gloved hand. His head is lowered, hiding his expression, breath puffing out a visible gust of cold air. A man opens the laurel-decorated door. Pallbearers step out of the entrance with a casket into the cold street. Madara watches them walk solemnly towards a carriage between the line of mourners, and then his stomach drops when more pallbearers exit the house with a second casket. The first casket is loaded, and then yet _another_ casket is carried from the house. Three caskets and the faint scent of charred flesh that Madara is intimately familiar with. 

The small crowd disperses to their carriages to converge at the burial grounds, including the gossiping women, and Tobirama suddenly lifts his head when he is alone, a solitary blackness against pristine white, and locks eyes with Madara. 

There is palpable grief for but only a split second before his expression goes familiarly blank. Tobirama does not acknowledge him, turning and striding to his own carriage. 

Madara stops by the shop, talks with the old candlemaker, and buys candles. He returns home, celebrates with his family, and makes a flimsy excuse when Izuna questions his somberness.

 

**-~~o0O0o~~-**

 

 _120 Years Later, Pre-Modern Warfare_  

It is death and pain and warfare, and Madara has only ever known this, so he does not hesitate to pull the triggering pin out with his teeth and throw the grenade over his head. 

The explosion rocks the earth, sending debris flying overhead. Madara nods to his fellow comrades, takes a breath, and launches himself over the trench. He fires the rifle with unerring accuracy, crouched low, soldiers swarming out of the trench behind and towards the enemy hideout. 

Madara follows, ignoring how mud and blood clings to his uniform, whirling and brutally breaking an enemy soldier’s jaw with the heel of his boot. He slams the butt of his rifle into another, swiftly rolls behind a broken wall from the bullets of a third and snags the fallen soldier’s rifle with his momentum, twisting around and shooting the third thrice in the chest. 

Adrenaline pumps through his body when he hears the crunch of crumbled bricks, finger tense on the trigger as he turns and points the weapon at the presence to his right. Madara pauses, eyes widening slightly when he sees Tobirama dressed in the enemy’s uniform standing before him having just turned the corner. Tobirama is carrying a wounded young soldier with one arm, a pistol held in his other hand pointed in turn towards Madara. 

They stare at each other for what seems like an eternity, the din of warfare voiding out like they’ve been dunked underwater. 

Tobirama is travel-worn, his uniform scuffed and dirty, his fair skin smudged with grime and burnt red from the merciless sun. He stands steadily nonetheless, easily supporting the weight of his comrade while blood seeps down his calf, likely hit by shrapnel from the grenade. 

Madara looks at him and thinks of Izuna, caught between a war of shinobi and losing his life for a war no one wanted, of Izuna piercing Tobirama through the abdomen, of Izuna weakly holding Madara’s hand as he suffered from the plague, of Izuna’s carefree smile celebrating a birthday, unknowing of the funeral going on next door, of Izuna safe at home with his brothers right now, far away from war. The wound inside him _burns_. 

Madara thinks of Izuna and remembers Tobirama’s hesitance, his recognition, his silence, his deaths. For all of the rage and hate Madara has had towards the man, he cannot find the will to kill him in cold blood now when he remembers the single clear memory of Tobirama’s profound grief, and for whatever reason, Madara does not ever wish to see such a heartbreaking face on Tobirama again. He slowly lowers the rifle, and the wound sizzles out like water splashed onto petty embers. 

Tobirama slowly lowers his weapon, too, wary. 

Madara does not see where Tobirama goes because his unit is overtaken when reinforcements arrive and they are seized as prisoners of war. All Madara knows after that is brutal torture and the creeping pain of starvation. He slowly perishes in the cold, solitary prison and wonders if it is his imagination when a head of white hair bleeds into his blurred vision and fingers gently brush grimy long hair from his face. He sighs out a last rattling breath of ease as his pain finally fades into nothingness.

 

**-~~o0O0o~~-**

 

 _100 Years Later, Modern Times_  

It is peaceful. No wars in this country, and Madara has grown up looking left and right for a familiar face. 

He’s met Hashirama again, back in high school. Despite his attempts to keep a distance, Hashirama worms his way into Madara’s life and remains there like a stubborn cockroach. 

Madara had questioned it, once, when he’d been invited over to Hashirama’s house, when he’d only noticed two younger brothers rather than three. Madara regrets asking, because it had resulted in waterworks from Hashirama and pale, worried faces from the younger brothers, Itama and Kawarama. 

From Hashirama’s account, Tobirama had one night simply vanished on his way to school, and no amount of searching had brought up any clues to his whereabouts. 

Madara speculates and waits, because he knows he will eventually stumble upon Tobirama. 

He eventually does, years later, when his father deems Madara a proper successor to the family business. Madara’s busy schedule gives him scarcely any time with his family, but the income is saved towards his brothers’ future uses, so Madara does not hesitate to provide for them. 

He takes a business trip overseas in a private jet, scowling at Hashirama’s idiotic texts to him that he’d sent before Madara left for his trip. Hashirama loves taking pictures with his phone, sending random pictures to Madara multiple times a day. Madara deletes the recently sent pictures of a stray dog behind a bush and a car horribly parked in a random parking lot. 

He reaches the other side of the country without issue, takes out his luggage and briefcase, and waits for his ride to the hotel not too far away. Madara waits for an hour before he becomes impatient and checks his phone only to find there’s a traffic jam on the highway the taxi should have been coming from. 

Annoyed, he decides to walk to the hotel since it isn’t that far off anyway, and sitting at a desk all day everyday has left him uncomfortably unfit even though he manages to find time to go to the gym at least twice a week. His current self would be no match for shinobi Madara or even military trained Madara during the last war he’d fought in. 

After walking a few blocks, Madara glances down at his phone at the map again when he hears children’s laughter to his left. A low, masculine chuckle follows, and Madara turns his head left only to blink at the scene. 

Tobirama is just beyond a fenced building, crouched down to a child’s height, wearing an apron and casual clothing beneath. He has a handkerchief in hand and is rubbing dirt off a child’s cheek. The child squirms and laughs, little grubby hands trying to steal away the cloth that Tobirama easily holds out of reach. Smiling slightly, almost fondly, Tobirama ruffles the child’s hair before straightening and shooing the child off to play with the others. 

Madara _stares_ , because he doesn’t think he’s ever heard Tobirama _laugh_ , and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen Tobirama _smile_ so genuinely before, either. Tobirama looks rather...charming when he does so. Madara doesn’t realize he’s frozen in spot until a bell rings, startling him out of his reverie. 

“Lunch time, kids!” a woman also wearing an apron calls from the doorway of the building. 

It’s then when Madara notices the sign for a daycare on the fence. Once Tobirama has ushered all of the children inside, Madara decides to leave, troubled because he doesn’t know if he should contact Hashirama or if he should leave Tobirama be considering how content he appeared to be. 

As he walks away, he doesn’t notice Tobirama’s gaze following him until he disappears around the corner. 

The next day, Madara returns to the daycare. He has a few hours to spare after long, tedious meetings. He’s curious, too, because for all that he’s believed Tobirama to be a cold bastard, he’s never believed that Tobirama would _abandon_ his family. And...Madara kind of sort of wants to hear Tobirama laugh again. Only to see if he was imagining things yesterday, of course. 

He spots the woman from yesterday tending to the children rowdily playing in the play area. She notices him and smiles, and when he remains stationary, she hesitates and comes over a bit warily. 

“Can I help you, sir?” she asks. 

“Where is the teacher from yesterday?” Madara inquires in perfect English. “I’m...an acquaintance of his…” 

She frowns. “Do you mean Mr. Sento? He suddenly quit yesterday and I haven’t seen him since. His phone has been disconnected, too. I’m worried…” 

Madara becomes still at the admission. 

“Do you think you could contact him?” the woman asks, far too trusting for her own good in Madara’s opinion. 

“I...Yes, I will try,” Madara says and abruptly turns to leave. 

His mind is whirling, gears clicking together. Madara isn’t an idiot. He knows Tobirama left his family for a reason, and it seems he’s gone to the lengths to even create a fake name. Tobirama probably noticed him yesterday and had presumably fled...but Madara doesn’t understand why. Tobirama has never run before when they’ve encountered each other. 

He scopes out the city for two weeks until it’s time to fly back home. 

He never finds Tobirama again in this lifetime.

 

**-~~o0O0o~~-**

 

 _150 Years Later, Pre-Futuristic Era_  

Madara finds Hashirama first once more. The man becomes distraught when Madara casually brings up the topic of siblings while they drink coffee in a small café. 

Again, Tobirama has disappeared. Hashirama sorrowfully tells the tale of how he and his family had been desperately searching for him to no avail when he’d vanished as a preteen. Madara says little in response, already planning, scheming for an elusive prey. He doesn’t think about it too much as to why he’s trying to find him when he’s never bothered to before. 

Time passes. 

Madara spots a tuft of white hair in a crowd one day. He silently leaves the chair in the public outdoor seating area without hesitation, prowling after the tall man gracefully slipping through the throng. Madara doesn’t take his eyes off him, glimpsing those familiar features in the windows of shops. 

Tobirama sees him. 

It’s entirely accidental and not part of Madara’s plans, when Tobirama spots him following, Madara’s reflection in the traffic mirror above. Tobirama _runs_. 

Madara makes chase, but Tobirama has always been remarkably fast. 

Madara loses him in the huge city, growls in frustration, and stalks down the streets in search of him even though he knows it will be fruitless. 

He never does find him.

 

**-~~o0O0o~~-**

 

 _450 Years Later, Futuristic Era_  

The next life, Madara is prepared. The Uchiha are an accomplished military family through the generations, and technology advances every time he is reborn. 

He uses every resource available, familiarizes his brothers and relatives in the police, detective, and military forces with a holographic animation provided by Hashirama, who has also joined the detective force in finding his brother who’d vanished at ten-years-old. Tobirama’s features are distinctive and easily recognizable even if he is a solemn-faced child with eyes much too ancient for one his age in the hologram. 

Madara should have known, however, that he’s the first to encounter Tobirama no matter how widespread his connections are. 

Tobirama is wearing a thin, cloth-like armored hooded jacket, dark sunglasses to hide his eyes, and the marks on his face seem to be covered with some kind of concealer. The hood hides most of his face, but Madara recognizes him anyway, some instinctual part of him conditioned to recognize his presence. 

Careful this time, Madara is disguised in a manner that is not too conspicuous or immediately recognizable, but that hardly matters. Madara suspects that Tobirama, too, is somehow aware of his presence. 

Tobirama doesn’t react as he walks down the empty night streets while Madara follows at a relatively inconspicuous distance, but Madara knows that Tobirama is aware he’s there. 

Just as Tobirama reaches the corner of the street, Madara sprints. Tobirama does, too, but Madara has planned for this. 

Izuna lies in wait, just at the end of the turn, his wide stance ready for grappling. Tobirama skids to a near stop and unexpectedly uses his high-speed momentum to kick off the wall of a building, trajecting him into another direction at an exactly ninety degree turn. He lands and rolls and is up in a split second, and Madara can’t help but admire the ease in which he does so without chakra to enhance their bodies. 

“Kagami!” Izuna shouts. 

Tobirama hesitates when the younger Uchiha steps out in a combat stance, hardly noticeable, but Madara sees it and seizes his chance, signaling for the others. 

Shisui and Itachi burst out from seemingly empty hover cars on opposite sides of the street the exact moment Tobirama steps between them, Shisui aiming tranquilizer handgun and Itachi rushing forward to engage as their most skilled martial artist, providing an excellent distraction. 

Tobirama takes it all in with ruthless calm, evading the younger man’s attacks and whipping back with lightning speed, all the while making it difficult for Shisui to shoot without accidentally hitting Itachi. On the corner of a building just above the two combatants, Obito holds his tranquilizer sniper ready if Tobirama attempts to make a run for it, zeroing in on his target through the lens of his sleek night vision goggles. 

Madara reaches them, pulls out a needle from his dark tactical pants pocket, and smoothly trades places with Itachi. Tobirama glares at him, his sunglasses having been knocked off by Itachi, red eyes silently incensed. His hits are hard and powerful, and Madara can’t help the excitement from building, for he has not had a battle like this since his shinobi days. 

Tobirama’s shirt is blue underneath the jacket, nearly the same hue as his armor from long ago. Madara’s mind almost automatically shifts to the bloody battlefield, his gunbai slamming in sparking steel against Tobirama’s sword, two legendary shinobi who had rarely engaged in battle when they’d had their own rivals. The rush of a potent foe is entirely exhilarating, and Madara only just manages to not make the familiar katon hand seals that he hasn’t used in over a millennia. 

Madara snags Tobirama’s arm when he throws a punch and uses his heavier weight to fling Tobirama over his head. Tobirama lands with a grunt of pain on his back, but he almost immediately strikes back before Madara can jam the needle down, twisting on the ground and kicking Madara’s feet from under him. Shisui takes his chance, firing the tranq dart thrice, but in one swift movement, Tobirama yanks off his jacket and swings it over his body, catching the darts in the armored jacket and smacking them away. Shisui blinks in bemusement, looking rather impressed by the move before Itachi pulls out his own tranquilizer gun and fires several rapid rounds. 

Tobirama rolls out of the way and to his feet, diving behind a parked hover truck for protection from the darts. By this time, Izuna and Kagami have caught up, holding their own tranq guns and cautiously approaching the vehicle. Obito above aims towards the hover truck, unable to get a clear shot even from his vantage point. Madara gets to his feet and wipes blood from his chin where Tobirama managed to sock him in the jaw. It stings, but Madara hardly feels it with the adrenaline rushing through his veins. 

“Who’s this guy, again, Uncle Madara?” Shisui asks as he slowly makes his way towards the car, gun steady. “Because he is awesome!” 

Itachi follows his cousin and provides a prompt answer. “Senju Tobirama, approximately 29 years old, 182.3 centimeters tall and 70.5 kilograms—” 

“I don’t think that’s what li’l Shisui was asking, kiddo,” Kagami puts in cheerily to his teenage cousins. “But yeah, he’s amazing! Cute, too.” 

“Kagami,” Izuna says, rolling his eyes. “Nothing about this guy is _cute_. He’s _dangerous_.” 

“Cute is also a slang term for _hot_ , Uncle Izuna,” Shisui says helpfully. 

“I _know_ that!” Izuna snaps, entirely done with the younger Uchihas. 

“Guys, we’re kind of on a _mission_ here!” Obito says from the rooftop, hearing the conversation through the tiny transmitting devices in their ears. 

“I’m not letting Sasuke anywhere _near_ all of you anymore,” Itachi says, completely deadpan. 

“Be quiet, all of you,” Madara orders, exasperated but partially amused by their banter, and he silently thinks Kagami might be right, because Madara is still admittedly entranced by Tobirama’s graceful combat prowess and sharp calculation earlier, the hard look in his eyes and grim determination set in his downturned lips. He doesn’t think he’ll ever fight another opponent like Tobirama, and he never has in the lifetimes he’s lived, now that he thinks about it. 

They all shut up, thankfully. Madara doesn’t stop to wonder why he is so intent on capturing Tobirama, why his heart is pounding from something other than adrenaline as he cautiously makes his way towards the vehicle. 

“Tobirama,” he says, and then it hits him that he hasn’t said Tobirama’s name directly to the man in centuries, much less even said a _few words_ to him. He swallows to wet his mouth before shaking off the unexpected revelation. “If you surrender, then we won’t have to use force.” 

“But we already did,” Shisui mutters before Kagami slaps a hand over his mouth. 

Silence answers. 

Madara doesn’t expect an easy capture. He signals to Izuna and Kagami to go left, letting the teens know to go right. Madara begins to step forward when knuckles rap on metal. They all stop, silent and attentive. Madara cocks his head, listening when Tobirama taps on the metal again. 

It’s a signal code, one that Madara recognizes — the Konoha shinobi had used it to communicate with each other. The action confirms Madara’s strong suspicions that Tobirama retains all of his memories when no one else does, and he can’t identify the bubbling feeling rising inside him at the knowledge. 

 _Tap, tap, tap._  

Three quick raps mean friendly forces — normally signaling allies were approaching rather than enemies, but it also means potential enemies may be seeking a truce and to proceed cautiously. 

 _Tap. Tap, tap._  

One rap and two quick ones is what makes Madara signal to his family members to lower their weapons. Tobirama is willing to talk. 

Slowly, Tobirama stands. His gaze is sharp and just as penetrating as it had been centuries ago, but there are dark bruises under his eyes and a tiredness that lingers in them. Madara drinks in the sight of a fellow shinobi — likely the only one in existence aside from Madara even if they did not have access to chakra — oddly exultant. 

“We will talk,” Tobirama says, his voice husky and low as if he doesn’t use it much. “Alone.” 

Madara’s family members glance at him, and Madara nods for them to give them some space. They do, but they are prudent for the safety of the head of their family, far enough to not hear the conversation but close enough to intervene if anything happens. Madara shuts off the transmitting device, giving them some privacy. 

Tobirama moves, slowly and deliberately as to not be seen as threatening, walking around the vehicle and standing in front of Madara just a few feet away. 

“Do not tell my family you’ve seen me,” Tobirama says, and there is a resigned tone in his voice that doesn’t suit him. 

Madara frowns. “Why not? They’ve been searching for you desperately.” _For centuries_ , he doesn’t say, because the words needn’t be spoken. 

Tobirama shakes his head slowly. “Because...I am their reaper. My presence brings death.” 

His voice cracks a little at the end, and it is then when Madara studies the man up close, seeing the slight droop of his shoulders where they had been tall and strong in the past, the deep exhaustion in his features, the surprising wiry thinness of his limbs without the jacket covering him, the overall _subdued_ appearance that sends alarm rushing through Madara. Tobirama...Tobirama has never looked so _defeated_ , like the weight of the world is crushing on his shoulders, like he’s close to _breaking_. 

Madara steps closer almost unconsciously. Tobirama tenses, looking like he’ll flee any second. Madara hesitates and doesn’t move. Tobirama doesn’t relax. 

“What do you mean by that?” Madara asks cautiously. 

Tobirama’s gaze flutters down and he is silent for a long minute. “...When we were reincarnated those first few times...one by one, they would die while I survived. Itama, Kawarama, and Hashirama, they _suffered_ while I lived to see it again and again...and I couldn’t _stop it_.” 

Tobirama looks back up, the raw anguish twisting his expression making Madara’s heart stutter. Never has he seen Tobirama so tormented — it’s like a physical _ache_ in Madara’s chest, chilling horror at the admission. For all that Tobirama is cold and seemingly unfeeling, Madara knows Tobirama loves his family fiercely and protects them with all of his might. He had witnessed it multiple times when Tobirama had taken a blade, a blow, a vicious intent meant for Hashirama, when he’d shielded his cousin Tōka from a blow that had torn his body apart and left him severely crippled for months. 

Tobirama has never abandoned his family. 

“So I left,” Tobirama says quietly, his expression morphing into blankness, like the ripples of water smoothing into undisturbed tranquilness. 

He has been _protecting_ them. 

Madara is speechless. He doesn’t know if Tobirama’s theory is true, but the pasts are there, solid evidence for those words. Every time he’s seen Tobirama, those first few times, Tobirama had already lost one or more brothers just like Madara up until the last time Madara had witnessed his private grief, when Tobirama had lost them all at once. 

After that, Madara had found out about Tobirama’s disappearances — because Hashirama has been _alive_ to tell him each time, he suddenly realizes with dawning dread. Itama and Kawarama as well, these past few lifetimes, are the only times Madara has seen them all together _alive_. 

“Don’t look for me anymore,” Tobirama says. “Your family, too, could be in danger.” 

Madara will do _anything_ for his family, destroy _anything_ that dares to harm them. He looks at Tobirama and sees a man who has endured lifetime after lifetime. He sees the cold, merciless shinobi, the samurai’s hesitation in striking Izuna, the knight calmly accepting his impending death, the solitary young man’s palpable anguish of his lost brothers, the soldier’s gentle touch in a filthy world of pain and death, the daycare teacher’s smile and laughter with children...and Madara can only see Senju Tobirama, who has suffered and suffered and will suffer even more. 

Madara...Madara has found relative peace, the wounds of war and rage scabbing over with each passing lifetime bringing him his brothers, _his family_. It is all he has ever wanted. 

And Madara does not know if he can let it go. 

If Tobirama _truly_ is a danger to them, then Madara… 

“Good bye, Madara,” Tobirama says softly, almost gently in his understanding, because he, too, will do _anything_ for his loved ones. 

Madara does not stop him from leaving, and this time he recognizes the rising feeling of profound _regret_.

 

**-~~o0O0o~~-**

 

 _A Millennia Later_  

It is hundreds of lifetimes that pass, every single one where Madara glimpses the shadows of the past. He never goes to it, never glimpses it again until the next life. 

Sometimes Madara wonders, if he had stopped Tobirama from leaving, had approached Tobirama in one of those lifetimes earlier, would things have been different? Would he have seen Tobirama’s smile and laughter again? Would this excruciating ache in his chest finally cede? 

And Madara _wishes_.


	2. And Liberates Thee Of Anguish

 

 _Approx. 2 Millennia Later, Location Unknown_  

The journey up the mountains is treacherous with the unpredictable heavy winds and endless snowy landscape. 

Madara reiterates to himself over and over that he absolutely _despises_ the cold. He’s bundled from head to toe in protective gear inside a sturdy armored aircraft that doubles as a land vehicle when needed, specially made for this kind of extreme weather, but it still feels like he’s shivering from his bones. He mutters to himself about crazy Senjus as he eyes the map on the digital screens displayed before him. 

The town citizens at the base of the mountain had warned him that even with the aerial vehicle he’s taking, many don’t make it back with how dangerous these mountains are known to be. Madara had ignored their warnings, though. He’s finally found his quarry, and he certainly isn’t afraid of dying (no matter how many times he’s died, it’s never a pleasant thing to think about or experience). 

Besides, the legends of a snow spirit living in these snowy mountains are what garnered Madara’s interest. The descriptions of the so-called snow spirit from the locals are exactly what Madara has been searching for with his travels through multiple countries. 

Madara has briefly glimpsed Tobirama in every lifetime and studiously ignored it for nearly two millennia. Each and every time, growing regret and guilt gnaws at him, the wound that he thought was healed bleeds with _pain_. He’s lived good lives with his family. The Senju family has also been a constant in his lifetimes, but there is always one particular one missing. 

Madara’s thought about it — many, _many_ times, in fact — long, sleepless nights of thinking over and over what could have been, the choices he’s made up until now, watching Hashirama and his brothers desperately search for someone they would never find, the knowledge that Tobirama has been _alone_ all of this time. It’s a sad fact that Madara hasn’t done anything about it until a few lifetimes ago when he’d restarted his search for the elusive Senju. 

Perhaps it’s guilt or obligation or repaying a debt for giving Madara hundreds of chances to be with his family, but it doesn’t matter because the tight ball of emotions he’s caged away ever since watching Tobirama walk away from him is something he can no longer ignore. He can’t pretend he’s content with being reborn over and over with his memories — so many that he can’t recall all of them except for the pristine clear memories of his time as Uchiha Madara, an infamous shinobi who once was. Perhaps it’s because he had the Sharingan back then, why the memories are so clear. 

Whatever the case, Madara is a man on a mission. The snow spirit is his closest find so far that matches Tobirama’s appearance. He’s already seen Tobirama once this lifetime, years ago when he’d been twenty-four and still looking at every glimpse of white that caught his eye. Tobirama had, of course, quickly made himself scarce as soon as he’d noticed Madara. If the rumors are accurate, then this will be the first time he’ll see Tobirama more than once within a single lifetime in nearly two millennia. His past failed attempts have taught him that Tobirama is _good_ at disappearing off the face of the earth once that first chance is missed, but he’s no longer hesitant and he will spend every next life searching if he has to. 

The digital map beeps, indicating Madara has reached his destination. Madara’s heart jumps and quickens. He’s followed countless rumors across countries only to end up disappointed but determined to seek out the next lead. Madara knows he shouldn’t expect much, but he can’t help it as he unbuckles his seatbelt before he even completes landing the aircraft. He hops out and is immediately hit with icy winds nearly knocking him off his feet on the slippery ground. 

Gritting his teeth against the biting chill, he glances around the seemingly barren, isolated snowscape for any signs of possible inhabitants. The locals had told him that the weather changes quickly up on the mountains and that snowstorms can appear unexpectedly. Madara glances at the distant cloud of massive white in the distance and judges that he only has minutes before one hits. 

He turns his head left and notices a seemingly innocent huge pile of snow...except that something in him has him heading towards it without hesitation. He curses the waist-deep snow as he wades through it, circling around the pile and sucks in a breath when he sees that the mound is actually a small cabin nearly fully covered in snow. Spotting a door, he quickly makes his way to it just as the winds howl in warning and thick fluffy snowflakes begin fluttering down as the storm draws closer. 

Madara doesn’t bother knock and tries the doorknob only to find it unexpectedly unlocked. Without further ado, he tries to open the door only to find it’s half frozen shut. Growling in frustration and freezing his ass off, Madara slams his shoulder against the heavy, fortified wood, bursting the door open and almost sending himself flying ungracefully into the room when he slips on ice hidden beneath the layers of snow. 

“Dammit,” he mutters, righting himself and shutting the door shut just as heavy snowfall and winds slam against the cabin. “I hate winter.” 

Then he realizes he’s _in_ the cabin and swiftly glances around. It’s warm in here, the fireplace crackling with fresh firewood. The cabin is simple with only the barest of necessities. No pictures or anything homey at all to indicate who lives here. Madara hardly spares the rest of the cabin a look as he glances about for any inhabitants. 

“Hello?” he calls out, reaching behind him for his hunting knife because one can never be too careful and Madara’s seen enough in his lifetimes to know that there just might be an actual snow spirit living here rather than a certain snow spirit-looking person he’s looking for. 

Silence answers. Madara kicks off his boots because there’s no way he’s going back outside snow spirit or not and he’ll make himself right at home here whether the occupant likes it or not. He takes a few steps towards the fireplace, grateful for the warmth because it feels like he’s already got a mild case of hypothermia despite only being out in the frigid cold for a few minutes. 

There’s two doors facing the fireplace on the opposite wall. Madara carefully opens one and discovers an empty washroom before moving to the other. There’s a distinct gut feeling that unfurls like a blaring signal as soon as he’s in front of the second door and Madara _knows_. 

He opens the door without hesitation and steps inside. The room is dim without light of any kind but Madara is drawn to the single bed in the simple room. A blanketed figure lies upon it, and Madara feels like his entire world stops when he sees white hair like a beacon in the dark. 

“Tobirama…” he breathes. 

Madara is frozen where he stands. He’s been searching and searching and now he doesn’t know what to do all of a sudden. Countless thoughts whirl in his mind. What should he say? Why did he come? Dare he try to reconcile? _Did_ he come to reconcile? How should he act? 

Madara shakes himself and cautiously makes his way towards the bed. Tobirama hasn’t stirred at all, and Madara frowns because he’s always known Tobirama to be diligently on guard. Concern has him quickening his steps. He leans over the bed slightly, relieved to hear soft breathing before carefully, gently shaking the form and tensing because he’s half expecting a knife in the face. 

But...nothing. 

Madara’s frown deepens. He hears an inhale like a raspy wheeze and then a sickly sounding cough. Madara pulls down the blanket, blinks, and then stares open-mouthed at what he sees. Tobirama lies curled in a fetal position but he’s shockingly thin and weak, face flushed with fever and gaunt with haggardness. His hair has grown longer and unkempt, sticking to his forehead from sweat, and his eyes flutter open in glazed confusion. 

“What’s happened to you, Tobirama?” Madara says in growing horror. He’s never seen Tobirama look so feeble before. 

Tobirama doesn’t have the strength to even reply, eyes closing again and falling limp. Madara panics for an instant before instincts kick in and he’s rushing about the cabin and raiding the cupboards and supplies to make something of sustenance while heating water and gathering more blankets to lay before the fireplace. He gently carries Tobirama’s worryingly light form from the room to the blankets and tucks him in there because the bedroom is far too cold to recover properly in. 

Once Madara is certain he has everything that he might need, he kneels next to Tobirama with a bowl of steaming gruel mixed with medicine. Tobirama wakes again, red eyes slowly focusing on Madara. There’s pain in his expression, and Madara’s not sure if it’s all because of the fever or his malnourished state. He’s hardly anything but skin and bones, and Madara is alternately incensed and worried for him letting himself come to this state. 

“...Ma...da…” Tobirama whispers weakly. 

“Yeah,” Madara swallows because the ball of emotions he’s kept locked away is splitting at the seams and it feels like his throat has swelled twice its size without his notice. He clears his throat and holds out the bowl of gruel in a poor offering. “Yeah, I’m here. Eat. You look like you haven’t eaten in...well, centuries.” 

Tobirama blinks uncomprehendingly at him. Madara lifts the spoon with a small portion, ignoring how his hand trembles and firmly decides that he still must be cold from the outside, and blows on it to cool the gruel. He quickly realizes that Tobirama is too weak to be spoon fed at all when the gruel just dribbles down Tobirama’s chin and the weakened man coughs hard enough to shake his entire frame. Madara cleans it up and deliberates before cooling down another spoonful and popping it in his own mouth. It’s liquid enough that he doesn’t need to chew, so he gently holds the fragile form cradled against him and tilts Tobirama’s chin up. It’s tricky at first for Tobirama to swallow when Madara seals their lips together and carefully lets Tobirama drink from him. Madara alternates between gruel and water once Tobirama swallows without choking and in-between sessions of vicious coughing fits. 

Tobirama only manages a quarter of the bowel before he turns his head away in refusal of more. Madara frowns but swallows the mouthful he has readied for Tobirama. He’ll try more later once he’s sure Tobirama can take more. Madara bundles Tobirama up in the blankets again after wiping away sweat with a warm wetted dishcloth and sits back in sudden exhaustion. 

Tobirama is asleep almost instantly. Madara stares at him in deep contemplation. Aside from his gauntness, Tobirama still has the same features as he’s always had. White hair, pale skin, red facial markings, and red eyes just as the rumors state the snow spirit looks liked — but there’s a telltale difference. There’s a bone-deep weariness that clings to him in his thin frame and the dark circles beneath his eyes, no sign of the strong-willed, sharp-minded warrior that Madara knows him to be. Perhaps it’s the fever, but Madara doesn’t think so. Even the strongest can be burdened with something so debilitating that they break under the pressure. 

Madara admittedly fears what he might discover when Tobirama wakes again. 

Throughout the night as the snow storm rages around them, Madara feeds and cares for Tobirama while pondering over the past in grave thought. 

It’s an exhausting experience for the both of them. Sometime in the night Tobirama begins to deliriously mumble incoherent words until Madara leans in closer when he catches a few familiar words. 

“...Bro...ther…” 

Madara tenses when he realizes Tobirama is calling for his _brother_. Right now, at this time, Madara knows that Hashirama is countries away with Itama and Kawarama. The Senju brothers have never forgotten their missing brother, never given up in all of the lifetimes Madara has met them. There isn’t any way to contact them now, with the snowstorm outside and the aerial vehicle buried in several feet of snow. Madara intends to dig it out once the storm passed and get Tobirama to the nearest hospital as soon as he can, but one glance outside tells him it will be suicidal in this weather. 

Frowning when Tobirama shifts restlessly in his sleep, Madara carefully reaches out and brushes back damp hair. His fingers tremble even though he’s no longer cold. Aside from holding Tobirama just earlier, he’s never touched Tobirama like this at all. He’s never had any reason to. 

“...Ita...ma...Kawa…” Tobirama murmurs in heartbreaking distress. 

Madara hesitates before carefully gathering Tobirama in his arms again. He doesn’t have a right to do this, but if he can offer some comfort after knowingly letting Tobirama suffer alone for so long… 

Tobirama sighs at the contact, relaxing fully against Madara. Madara holds him awkwardly, stiff and uncertain but when Tobirama whimpers in pain and calls for Hashirama again, Madara tightens his hold as protectiveness surges up inside him when he thinks of his own brothers. The lump is back in his throat, his breath hitching when everything hits him all at once. 

He’s finally found Tobirama. 

“...I…” he falls silent, not knowing what to say so he holds Tobirama and doesn’t speak at all for the rest of the night. 

The next few days, the storm does not cease in the least and Tobirama’s fever worsens to the point Madara seriously considers taking the aircraft out despite the dangers. He keeps Tobirama warm, nurses him as much as he knows how to, and feeds him medicine and liquid foods that he can keep down by mouth. The firewood is running low, as is the other supplies. Tobirama likely hasn’t been able to stock up due to his illness and Madara wonders how he was able to live here in the first place. 

Through it all, Tobirama continues to have bouts of delirious episodes, most often calling out for his family. Madara holds him until he quiets, sooths his distress like he’d do when his younger brothers had nightmares, and fervently hopes that the fever will break. Tobirama seems inexplicably calmer when Madara is holding him despite what Madara might’ve believed. 

Then one night Tobirama opens his eyes, still feverish but clearly aware as he takes in his surroundings and pauses on Madara in a familiar impassive gaze only slightly glazed with fever. Madara is immediately awake in spite of his sleepless nights here. 

“Tobirama?” Madara says softly, inquiringly. 

Tobirama blinks slowly before murmuring something so quiet in a husky tone from his sore throat from coughing that Madara strains to hear it. Madara leans closer, long black hair falling forward around them when Tobirama repeats himself and when Madara hears it his entire being freezes. 

 _“Please let me die.”_  

Madara jerks back, staring at Tobirama with wide eyes. Tobirama gazes at him with nearly the same expression when they’d parted ways the first time, tired and weary and understanding all in one. He won’t blame Madara if he leaves. Madara tightens his hold on Tobirama’s frail form. 

“No,” he says, and his voice cracks a little at the end when that damnable ball of emotion threatens to burst from the cage Madara had thrust it in, when the burst of protectiveness triples because he _can’t_ — “I won’t. I can’t.” 

 _“Please,”_ Tobirama croaks out, hardly able to speak anymore but the indomitable strength of his will is blazing in his crimson eyes, willing Madara to abide to his wish. “ _I don’t...want to be reborn again._ ” 

Madara sucks in a sharp breath. He’s shaking now, can’t seem to control himself. He, too, has wished that many, many times. As many times as he’s been with his family, he’s also seen them die again and again. But this time— 

Madara has never claimed to be a good man. He’s selfish and single-minded and he always will be. 

“You have to see your family again,” Madara says, tenderly cupping Tobirama’s cheek, desperate because he only needs Tobirama to cling to one more thing to hold on so he can get him to a hospital, so Tobirama can finally be with his family after two _long_ , _long_ millennia of loneliness and heartache. If that’s what Tobirama wants, what he’s called out for all of these nights, then Madara will do it. He _has_ to. 

Tobirama’s expression twists in pain, hurt lingering in the way he flinches from Madara’s touch when he’d found comfort in it before. Madara doesn’t understand the twisting feeling in his gut when Tobirama turns away from him. 

“Stop,” Tobirama says, the single word conveying his own agonizing desperation. 

“Tobirama—” But Tobirama has already exhausted his energy and is asleep again. 

Madara’s heart is pounding at the ghostly pale, wan face in sudden fear. He carefully places Tobirama back on the blankets and covers him back up before standing to put on his winter gear. Tying a long rope around his waist and the doorknob, he snags a shovel by the doorway and opens the door to a burst of wintry gusts whipping at him. Madara glances back at Tobirama once more before wading out into the storm. 

Even with the layers on, Madara is chilled to the bone immediately. Snow towers above the little cabin. He squints in the white landscape, unable to see even inches in front of him, but he remembers landing the aircraft about twenty feet behind the cabin. Determined, he climbs carefully to the top of the massive pile of snow and carefully makes his way towards it. It’s buried in feet of snow by now, but Madara judges his distance and starts digging. 

It feels like hours of digging, his limbs and face numb with cold and it feels like he’s breathing jagged icicles with every breath, but he doesn’t stop until the shovel clangs against metal. There’s a moment of profound relief before he’s working faster, desperate, and manages to find the door of the aircraft. He pries the frozen door and hits the button to start it, thankful for the advanced technology these days when the aircraft warms up in an instant. Madara hops in and rises above the mountain of snow towards the cabin where he can feel the rope tugging around his waist. He leaves the vehicle hovering just slightly above the snow where he can put Tobirama in easily, leaping down and entering the cabin. 

Madara doesn’t bother to take off his boots this time as he makes his way towards Tobirama, leaving a trail of melting snow behind him. Tobirama blinks awake and shivers at the chill coming off of Madara. 

“Come on, I’m getting you home,” Madara says, adding the rest of the blankets around him and picking him up. 

Tobirama shakes his head. “Too dangerous.” 

“I can’t just sit here and wait for the storm to pass,” Madara says insistently, cradling the now familiar body in his arms with care. 

“Too late,” Tobirama says, coughing into his hand and shaking from the force of it. “Won’t make it…” 

Madara glances back out at the storm, sees the solid whiteness blanketing the world outside, and he knows Tobirama is right. They’ll both lose their way out there even with a map. 

“I have to try,” Madara says stubbornly. 

Tobirama shakes his head again and then leans it tiredly against Madara’s shoulder, eyes slipping closed. “Stay.” 

Madara wavers, glancing down at Tobirama and the wintry storm outside. The small town down the mountain doesn’t have a hospital or even a local doctor. The closest hospital is miles away, and even getting to the cabin in clear weather had been unimaginably difficult with the unpredictable terrain and jagged cliffs jutting out. To do so during a storm as bad as this...but to have Tobirama suffer even longer… 

Madara is torn but he can’t risk Tobirama getting hurt out there. He sighs and gently sets him back down before going to park the aircraft. At least it’s closer now and accessible once the storm is over. 

Madara removes his winter gear and finds his limbs are nearly frozen stiff. He scowls briefly and strips off his wet clothing before dressing in his spare clothes and going back to gather Tobirama in his arms. It’s a comfort now, to have him close, and Tobirama doesn’t seem to mind when he cuddles closer despite the coldness of Madara’s frostbitten limbs. Madara inhales the crisp, clean scent of Tobirama’s hair though it’s slightly musky of sweat and fever. 

“Tobirama,” Madara says quietly, feeling raw and drained but content. “I know you don’t want to be reborn again...and neither do I...but if we are, perhaps…” 

 _Perhaps we can get along next time. Perhaps we can be friends. Perhaps we can find liberation together. Perhaps…_  

But Tobirama is already fast asleep. Madara gazes down at him, traces over long frosted lashes made more noticeable by the bruising beneath, the familiar facial markings and elegant features that not even illness can mar, the soft pink lips parted slightly as Tobirama breathes in rattling wheezes, heart in his throat and then Madara finally understands what this feeling welling up in him is. 

He lowers his head and kisses Tobirama gently, tenderly as his hair falls around them in a dark curtain shielding them from the cold world around them. 

Tobirama passes away quietly in the early hours of morning in Madara’s arms just as the snow storm recedes into gentle flakes drifting from the brilliant blue skies, and it’s the first time Madara weeps for a man he has only just learned to care for.

 

**-~~o0O0o~~-**

 

 _XXXX Years Later, Unspecified Location_  

“Hurry up, Madara! We’re going to be late!” Hashirama calls where he’s already halfway down the hallway of the massive academy. 

“Slow down before you trip and fall,” Madara grumbles, hefting his school bag over his shoulder and taking a more leisurely pace after his goofball friend. 

The academy caters to students with special abilities — the God Tree Academy of Chakra — founded by Headmaster Otsutsuki Hagoromo and his brother Deputy Headmaster Hamura. Those who can access chakra are few and far between, thus putting them under direct government supervision and assessment in the academy. Madara’s family is well-known in this school for their affinity with fire nature transformations, but Hashirama only enrolled last year with his ability, the only of his kind of wood nature transformation. Unfortunately for Madara, he’d been stuck as Hashirama’s roommate and Madara groans to himself because apparently Hashirama’s younger brother has notable chakra abilities as well and had been enrolled. Madara dreads another Hashirama even if Hashirama is his only friend here. 

The auditorium where the welcome ceremony for new students is packed. Hashirama hops about like a buffoon looking for open seats when he notices a few students waving him over. Namikaze Minato, who’s younger than them by several years and is a prominent student with wind nature transformation, smiles when Hashirama gleefully parks his butt on the seat next to him. Hashirama pats the open aisle seat on his left in invitation and Madara rolls his eyes as he squeezes through the tiny aisle while students chatter and bustle in excitement. 

“You almost didn’t make it,” Sarutobi Sasuke says, peeking from the other side of Minato from where he sits next to Hatake Sakumo. 

Both Sasuke and Sakumo are agemates with Madara and Hashirama, thought ages don’t particularly matter here where skill is more prevalent considering Minato also takes some courses with them. Sasuke’s family, like Madara’s, are known for their fire nature transformations whereas Sakumo’s family excels at lightning nature transformations. 

“I hear your little brother enrolled, too,” Sakumo says to Madara. 

Madara can’t help but puff up a bit with pride. “Yeah. Izuna’s getting really good with his fire release.” 

“I’m sure, since all of you Uchiha are like celebrities here,” Sasuke says good-naturedly. 

“Does your brother have wood release, too?” Minato asks Hashirama curiously. 

“Nope! Tobirama is really good at water nature transformation,” Hashirama says proudly. “He’s amazing! And really smart, too!” 

Madara rolls his eyes again because all Hashirama does is gush about his little brothers ever since he enrolled. The Senju are well-known for their variety of nature transformations and chakra abilities, and Madara shudders when he remembers the terrible first encounter with Hashirama’s older cousin Tōka who enjoys using her Yin release to create horrifying illusions on unsuspecting victims. Thankfully she’s moved up to the secondary education section furthest away from them now… 

“Oh, they’re starting!” Hashirama says excitedly as the crowd of students hushes when the Headmaster and Deputy Headmaster step onto the stage followed by all of the new students for the year. 

There’s only about a dozen this year, but it’s to be expected with how few members of society nowadays can access chakra. Madara smirks when he sees Izuna leading the small line of students, his little brother strutting across the stage confidently as expected of an Uchiha. 

“Which one’s your brother?” Sasuke asks Hashirama. 

“That one!” Hashirama points. 

“The brown-haired one?” Sakumo guesses because it’s impossible to tell which one Hashirama is pointing at from this distance. 

“No, the one with white hair,” Hashirama corrects, pointing insistently to the only white-haired student on stage. 

They all follow his finger to the stage where a head of white hair sticks out plainly amongst the other new students. Madara looks at the white hair first because it’s clearly noticeable and kind of weird (Sakumo included) before he looks at the kid’s face and— 

Madara’s breath hitches. 

 _I know him._  

He doesn’t know where the sudden thought comes from, doesn’t know why his heart is racing. 

 _I_ know _him!_  

But he doesn’t because he’s never met Hashirama’s little brother before but somehow he _does_ know him and he feels like a lump is growing in his throat and his heart hurts and he can’t _breathe_ , but— 

Like a compelled magnet, slanted crimson eyes turn and meet his from across hundreds of eyes, an infinite amount of time, and Madara feels like the world around him stops in a vacuum of silence, settles like a balance scale equalizing in weight on both sides, and goes on as the noise around him returns like he’s surfacing from underwater.

 _I know you_ , those eyes say right back.

* * *

 

Fin.


End file.
